


Father of Mine

by Quinny_555



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Parent Martin Whitly, Gunshot Wounds, Hallucinations, Hurt Malcolm Bright, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kidnapped Malcolm Bright, Kidnapping, Malcolm Bright Whump, Martin Whitly Being an Asshole, Protective Dani Powell, Protective Gil Arroyo, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29235930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinny_555/pseuds/Quinny_555
Summary: “Well, it’s been about three days since I last slept, so no?”“You think I’m here because you aren't sleeping,” he heard from behind him.“Well, I guess it could be stress-induced.” Malcolm opened the cage door and Sunshine flew out. “I don't even know why I’m talking to you. It’s not like it makes you go away faster.”
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 34
Kudos: 133





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pied_pollo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/gifts).



“How long has it been since you last slept?” Malcolm didn't even look up. 

“When did I get this case?” Dani rolled her eyes. 

“You have to sleep.” It wasn't a question. 

“I actually haven't reached my limit-” he stifled a yelp as Dani reached down and snatched the file from his hands. He frowned up at her. 

“Hallucinating from sleep deprivation should not be what it takes to get you to bed,” she deadpanned. He resisted the urge to point out that hallucinating was not his limit. “I’m taking you home.” 

He didn't bother fighting her. He would lose anyway. She watched with hawk-like eyes as he shrugged on his coat, making sure he didn't swipe any case files to work on as soon as he was out of her sight. 

“I can make it up to my apartment without help,” he muttered when she got out of the car. She didn't comment on his salty remark. He sighed and led the way. 

Malcolm made it to the top of the stairs and froze. His father stood in the kitchen, grinning at him. Dani said something about him falling asleep on his feet and he glanced at where she was standing. He didn't want to have to ignore his mind  _ and _ pretend he wasn't hallucinating. 

“Look, Dani, I appreciate what you're doing, but could you…” she was already walking past him. He pressed his lips into a thin line. “I’ll go to bed.” She stood at the top of the stairs and looked around. She paused when she looked at the kitchen; his father was gone when he followed her line of sight. Soon enough she turned back to him. 

“Alright,” she said. “Please actually try to rest.” He raised his eyebrows at her retreating back. 

“You're worse than my mother,” he called after her. 

“I take offense to that.” A few moments later he heard the door shut. He turned back to the kitchen, where his father was once again standing. 

“Hello, my boy,” he said warmly. Malcolm scowled and turned to where his bed was calling to him. “Aren't you, I don't know, surprised to see me?” Malcolm shook his head. 

“Well, it’s been about three days since I last slept, so no?” His father just stood there, so he started to replace Sunshine’s food and water. 

“You think I’m here because you aren't sleeping,” he heard from behind him. 

“Well, I guess it could be stress-induced.” Malcolm opened the cage door and Sunshine flew out. “I don't even know why I’m talking to you. It’s not like it makes you go away faster.” 

“And you… hallucinate me often, then?” Malcolm didn't dignify that with an answer. “That’s fascinating.” 

“Yeah, you would think so,” he muttered. He shrugged off his coat and tossed it on the back of the couch. He could hear shuffling, footsteps from behind him. His phone rang. 

“We should talk about that more in-depth, my boy.” Malcolm jumped as he turned and came face to face with his father. He swallowed and took a step back. His eyes darted to where the landline was still ringing. “Ignore it.” 

Malcolm looked at the hallucination and his breath halted. Now that he was close, right in front of him, what if… 

He was fast, but not fast enough. Malcolm didn't make it two steps before his father grabbed him from behind. He was pulled back into the larger man’s chest and that dreaded, sweet-smelling cloth covered his nose and mouth. 

He held his breath, thrashing in his father’s hold. His arms were pinned and he couldn't move his head. Distantly, he heard the call ring out. 

_ “Malcolm, it’s Gil,” _ he heard. He screamed against the cloth knowing that it was useless. His head felt foggy as he was forced to take another breath.  _ “I know you just got home, but… it’s your father. He’s escaped.”  _

He only realized that there were tears streaming down his face when his father started shushing him. He felt his body give out and darkness played around the edges of his vision. 

_ “Call me when you get this.”  _ Malcolm felt himself being lowered to the floor. He laid there, unable to move.  _ “I’m here for you, kid.” _

“Don't worry, my boy.” Gentle fingers brushed the hair from his eyes. The voice was distant. “It’ll be okay.” 

He didn't fight when the darkness pulled him under. 


	2. So... It's Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is UP babes? I am here continuing this, but as of now, I have no plan! Lemme know if y'all have ✨ideas✨ or ✨things you want to see✨. I don't think that this will be super long, but we will see 😌.

Martin looked down at his son’s sleeping face. His expression was slack, peaceful in a way he hadn't seen for years. 

“Oh, my boy,” he murmured, smoothing his hair back. Malcolm didn't stir. 

_ “Malcolm,” _ the voice from the answering machine repeated. This was the third time Arroyo had called.  _ “If you don't answer me, SWAT’s going to be kicking down your door. Seriously kid. Now is not a good time to go radio silent. Call. Me.”  _

Martin looked at the phone, weighing his options. He was a smart man. He understood that bringing the NYPD’s wrath down on himself prematurely could get him caught. He also understood, however, that his narcissistic tendencies wouldn't allow him to just walk away. This was the man who tried to replace him, who took his boy away for  _ ten years. _ He picked up the phone. 

_ “Malcolm?” _ the man answered on the first ring.  _ “Jesus, kid what have you been doing? I called you.”  _ Martin smiled, glancing back at Malcolm’s prone form. 

“Oh, I’m sorry Detective Arroyo. Malcolm’s been a little busy.” There was a long pause. 

_ “You son of a bitch.”  _

“Whoa, hey, that’s my mother you're talking about there,” Martin retorted with mock offense. He cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear as he lifted his son. Far, far too light. Slinging him over his shoulder was hardly any work at all. He could swear that the bags he had packed were heavier than his son. 

_ “I swear to god, if you hurt him-” _ Martin cut him off with a booming laugh. 

“If  _ I _ hurt him?” he said incredulously. “You, my friend, have already done enough of that yourself.” 

_ “I’m going to find you,”  _ Gil snarled.  _ “I’m going to find you, and lock you back up, and you are  _ never _ going to see Malcolm again.”  _ Martin paused what he was doing for a long moment, letting valuable seconds slip away as he tried to wrangle his temper. 

“I think you should be more concerned about what will happen when  _ I _ find  _ you, _ Gil. Malcolm is  _ my _ son, and you are going to regret  _ ever _ trying to take him from me.” He pulled the phone away from his ear and set it on the counter. Hefting both his son and the bags in his arms, he set out. 

~~~ 

Malcolm woke in the back seat of a station wagon. It was surreal, to say the least. This was something he had done often as a child when he went on trips with his father. Well, it was like that, if he ignored the restraints and gag. He groaned quietly. 

“Oh, are you awake back there my boy?” his father asked from the front seat. Malcolm squinted and groaned again. His head was  _ killing  _ him. It figures that the first time he slept in over two days would be drug-induced. “I’m gonna need a verbal answer, son.” 

Malcolm’s head felt full of cotton, and he was sure that was the only reason he wasn't losing it. Not yet, at least. This had to be one of his night terrors. It just  _ had to. _ There was no way his father- there was no way he- 

Malcolm didn't even notice that the car had stopped until the trunk was being opened. His eyes widened and he tried to scramble back, away from the man standing in front of him. Martin was grinning like mad. He knelt down but didn't get too close. 

“My boy!” he said, giddy. “I’m so glad you're finally awake.” 

“Wha-” he slurred. The gag didn't do much to muffle his voice. He wondered why Dr. Whitly had bothered with it at all. “Dr. Whit-” 

Before he could finish the question he was trying to piece together, his father’s face darkened. His hand shot out and he grabbed the chain that tethered Malcolm’s hands to the floor of the car. He yanked, throwing Malcolm off balance and bringing him closer than he wanted to be. Malcolm caught himself with his bound hands, but couldn't move further away as his father maintained his grip on the chain. 

“I am your father Malcolm,” he said softly. There was an undercurrent of anger there that had Malcolm freezing where he knelt. “You will address me as such.” 

Malcolm just stared at him. He said nothing, but Dr. Whitly didn't seem to mind. Instead, he grinned again, releasing his death grip on the chain. 

“Great, glad we got that settled.” Malcolm still remained silent. “If I take that off, will you stop giving me the silent treatment?” He gestured to the gag. 

Malcolm wanted to laugh at that. Usually, the gag was taken off when the prisoner agreed to stay  _ quiet,  _ not the other way around. Regardless, he nodded. He wanted the thing off. 

Well, he got his wish. Dr. Whitly beckoned him closer and, reluctantly, he did as he was bid. He swallowed heavily as the taller man reached around him, deftly untying the knot at the back of his head. When the fabric finally pulled away, Malcolm gasped. 

“Thank you,” he managed hesitantly. He knew it was better to keep his captor happy, to put him at ease. That didn't make it any easier for him. It felt like capitulation, like he was giving up. 

“Of course, my boy,” Dr. Whitly said jovially, his eyes lighting up. A large, warm hand settled on the back of his neck. It felt possessive, a mockery of Gil’s affectionate gesture. The grip tightened when he tried to pull away with a shudder. “We can't stay here long, I just wanted to check on you.” 

He was gone, closing the trunk before Malcolm could get another word out. The front door opened and Dr. Whitly slid into the driver's seat. 

“Where are we going?” Malcolm rasped, sitting up to look over the seats. 

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough.” That wasn't ominous at all. Malcolm refrained from saying so. 

“Great,” he muttered, glancing nervously at the rearview mirror. Dr. Whitly’s eyes raised and met his. Malcolm looked away. He focused instead on the metal bolt his hands were chained to. He tested the strength cautiously, trying to avoid rattling the chain if he could help it. It was no use. 

Instead, he turned his attention inward. Physically, his body was weak. He knew, logically, that he should take better care of himself. When he was running on coffee and adrenaline, the effects were easy to ignore. Now, though, it was weighing on him. He hadn't eaten in… he couldn't remember the last time he ate. He was dehydrated and his head felt stuffed with cotton. He worried, briefly, over whether Dr. Whitly had brought his meds. The thought drifted away soon enough, along with his consciousness. 

Malcolm jolted awake when the car came to an abrupt halt. He blinked at the darkness and struggled to sit up. Something was covering him, something… a tarp?

“Wha-”

“Quiet.” Martin’s voice was as sharp and sudden as the crack of a whip in the confined space. Malcolm did as he was bid immediately, his mouth closing with an audible  _ click _ before he even registered the command. “We’ve been pulled over. I'd think twice before trying anything my boy; if that officer even suspects you're here he’ll be dead before he hits the ground. Keep still.” 

Malcolm froze at the warning. He wanted to do something, to beg the police officer to help him, to call  _ Gil, _ but- 

_ No. _ He couldn't do that, couldn't throw this man to the wolf in front of him. So he didn't speak, didn't move, hardly even breathed for fear he would get the officer killed. 

“Good evening, officer! What can I do for you?” 

“License and registration,” the cop said with no preamble. Malcolm could feel his hand shaking where it was trapped between his torso and the floor. The glove box opened and the light of a flashlight glanced over the tarp. 

“Here we are,” Martin said. A long pause. 

“It says here that this vehicle belongs to a Joseph Meyer,” the officer said. 

“Yes, that’s me.” 

“I need to see your license.” Malcolm tensed.  _ Shit. _

“Of course. Here. I know, I don't look much like my picture.” He chuckled jovially. “I've lost a bit of weight since then.” The officer grunted. The flashlight beam skimmed the tarp again and Malcolm felt a sense of dread start to build. 

“Please step out of the car, sir,” he said. Malcolm flinched before he even heard the gunshot. 

He sat up, shoving the tarp off of himself and scrambling to see what was happening. The chain was long enough for him to lean over the back of the front seat. The driver's side door stood open and his father stood over a figure on the ground. 

“Wait, wait!” Dr. Whitly paused, slowly turning his head to look at Malcolm. The younger man, for his part, felt like a deer caught in headlights. 

“I told you this would happen, my boy,” he said. Malcolm opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to come up with something,  _ anything _ that would save this man’s life. 

“Just- just don't kill him, alright? You don't have to, I’m here, we can just  _ leave _ ,” he begged. His father sighed. 

“You know I don't like disappointing you, my boy, but I have to. The first rule of committing crimes is “leave no witnesses”.” 

“Please.” He forced the word between clenched teeth.  _ “Please, _ just leave him.” 

“I can't do that.” The man on the ground stirred, groaning. Malcolm felt a weight lift partially off of his chest; he was alive.  _ For now. _ “But, if you really want to extend his pathetic life a little longer…” 

Malcolm watched with bated breath as his father leaned down once more. He couldn't see what he was doing, but he stood soon enough. Malcolm pushed himself further back into the seat when his father opened the trunk once again. 

“Congratulations, my boy, you've been upgraded.” He grabbed Malcolm’s chain and unbolted it from the floor. He tugged, pulling Malcolm unwillingly from the back of the station wagon. 

“What are you-” Malcolm stumbled when his bare feet hit the cold ground. Large, warm arms wrapped around him and he tossed his head, trying to wiggle out of the hold. 

“Stop fighting me,” his father rumbled, the deep voice far too close to his ear. Suddenly his feet left the ground once again as his father lifted him. “ _ Malcolm _ , you were never this fussy as a child. Calm down.” 

“P-put me down.” He hated how frightened he sounded. His request was not heeded and his father walked around the car. Malcolm caught a glimpse of the officer, who was laying in the road. He had been stripped out of his kevlar and had his hands zip-tied behind his back. He was hardly conscious; his eyes barely widened when he caught sight of Malcolm. 

There was a bullet wound in his shoulder that was bleeding heavily. Malcolm craned his neck to try and see more when his father dropped him into the passenger seat. 

“He’s bleeding, you have to put pressure-” Martin rolled his eyes from where he was locking the chain to the foot of Malcolm’s seat. 

“I  _ am _ a doctor, son. I know how to keep a captive alive.” With that, he shut the door. Malcolm just stared blankly for a moment. 

“Captive?” he whispered. He should have realized what was happening before now, but his head was still stuffy. He felt slow. Not good,  _ not good.  _ His mind was his greatest weapon, what could he even do if he couldn't use it? 

Before he could even register what was happening his father was back in the driver’s seat. A glance back told him that the officer had taken his place on the floor of the station wagon. The man looked to be unconscious. 

“Now,” his father said jovially, drawing Malcolm’s attention back. “How about some tunes?” 


	3. Chapter 3

“I thought we were done with the silent treatment, my boy.” Micheal blinked his eyes open slowly, trying to get his bearings. 

“Who said anything about the silent treatment?” He took a deep calming breath. It was dark, which either meant that he had been out for only a few hours or way more than a few. 

“Well, not you. That’s rather the point, I thought.” Micheal strained to hear anything useful in the sudden bout of silence. A sigh. “This was always your mother’s favorite punishment as well, you know.” He suppressed a pained groan, trying not to alert his captor- captors? He seemed to have taken the young man’s place in the back of the car. The young man- the older man’s son, he assumed- had been restrained before. He wondered if he still was. 

“Oh, was it?” the younger man muttered. “What kind of stuff did she give you the silent treatment for, huh? Because I'm pretty sure it wasn't because you took someone _hostage_.” 

“Don't be so dramatic, Malcolm. _You_ were the one who suggested it.” 

“I did _not-”_ another pause accompanied by a deep breath. “I wanted you to not kill him. I didn't want _this.”_

“We can't have witnesses. I thought you knew that.” It was said like a reprimand. The younger man- Malcolm- laughed sharply. 

“Oh, of course, you're right. How could I forget that you don't want any witnesses to my kidnapping?” The older man huffed. 

“Again with the theatrics! Obviously, you know that, whether you want to or not.” 

“If you're so sick of theatrics, then why don't you unchain me, hmm?” There was another long pause. “What, giving me the silent treatment now, Dr. Whitly?” Micheal felt his breath catch despite himself. _Dr. Whitly?_ As in the Surgeon? Shit. Not good, not good. 

“You know that I would never hurt you, Malcolm- well, not irreparably. But our guest on the other hand?” Micheal tensed. “Well, if you don't watch your mouth, he might not be so lucky.” 

“What are you going to do to him?” The question was so quiet that Micheal barely heard it. 

“I don't know yet,” The Surgeon said. “He does rather remind me of Detective Arroyo, though. Maybe he would make a good messenger.” Micheal figured that that didn't bode well for him. 

“He doesn't even _look_ like Gil,” Malcolm protested. Micheal took that to mean that this ‘Gil’ _wasn't_ a large black man. 

“He’s a cop,” The Surgeon deadpanned. “They all remind me of him.” Malcolm didn't seem to have anything to say to that. Micheal tugged lightly on the chain, which was bolted to the floor of the car. It was sturdy. 

The car dipped suddenly and jostled his head- which was killing him- and the bullet wound in his shoulder. Micheal couldn't hold in a pained groan at the sudden movement. 

“Oooh, is our guest awake back there?” The Surgeon said jovially. Micheal said nothing, frozen in place as he was. 

He remembered the height of The Surgeon’s reign of terror. He had only been a teenager then, but he remembered hearing the stories, whether they were on the news or told by kids in his school. Now he was here with the man himself. It was like a childhood nightmare come true. 

“I think you are. What’s your name?” He hesitated. “If you don't want to use that tongue, I’m going to cut it out and feed it to you.” Micheal swallowed heavily at the threat. 

“Swan,” he rasped reluctantly. “Micheal Swan.” 

“Odd name,” The Surgeon commented. “I’m Dr. Martin Whitly.” He turned to his son. “Introduce yourself, my boy.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I raised you to have manners. Now, introduce yourself.” 

“Bright,” Malcolm said shortly. “Malcolm Bright.” An exasperated sigh pushed past Dr. Whitly’s lips. 

“Again with the pseudonym?” he said. “It’s alright when you're trying to make it as an FBI agent, but now you're here. Tell him your name. Your real name.” 

“That is my real name,” Malcolm said stubbornly. He did not look over the seats, but Micheal could practically feel The Surgeon’s frustration. 

“You _will_ tell him your name or I will stop this car right now and slit his throat right in front of you.” The man sounded like he was trying to remain calm; he wasn't succeeding. There was a long pause and Micheal feared that The Surgeon would follow through on his threat. 

“My name is Malcolm Whitly.” The words were spoken through gritted teeth. 

“See, that wasn't so hard, was it?” Malcolm did not answer. A tense silence settled over the car and Micheal found himself floating near unconsciousness again. 

He came to once again when the car came to a stop. _I've definitely got a concussion,_ he thought. He was still trying to decide which of his injuries was worse- the gunshot wound or the concussion- when the driver's side door of the car opened. He could hear the crunch of boots on what sounded like gravel. 

“Are you going to fight me, my boy?” he heard as the other door opened. 

“What happens if I say yes?” Malcolm responded slowly. 

“Then I put this cloth over your mouth and take you inside anyway.” No response. “Must you always be so difficult?” 

“Fine,” Malcolm said. “I’ll walk.” 

“You're not wearing shoes.” 

“Yeah? Whose fault is that?” A huff. 

“I’ll carry you.” 

“No.” 

“Fine. If you want torn-up feet, I certainly won't stop you.” Micheal sat up straighter when he heard the rattle of a chain followed by the door shutting. A glance over the seats confirmed his suspicion that they were leaving. 

Micheal took the time to try and properly assess his situation. He had been stripped of his uniform and was left only in his white t-shirt, boxers, and socks. His watch, belt, and equipment were nowhere to be found. 

_Police work was supposed to be tamer than active duty,_ he thought ruefully. _Now look at the mess I’m in._

While he was alone he took the chance to further test his restraints. His hands were cuffed behind him and he turned his back to the anchor to which he was tethered. He few solid tugs resulted in nothing but sore wrists and a growing sense of dread. He swallowed back bile. 

“Great,” he muttered to himself. “Just… great.” 

~~~ 

Malcolm stumbled slightly, leaning heavily on his father as they made their way to the cabin. He wanted to drag his feet, to try and stall the inevitable, but he knew it was useless. His father had drugged him again when they stopped at a gas station a few miles back, leaving him weak as a kitten. 

“Whose cabin is this?” he asked. He could tell that his voice slurred slightly. 

“It’s a vacation spot for one of my associates,” his father replied. Malcolm hummed. 

“Looks cozy for a high society socialite,” Malcolm observed. “So I’m assuming it’s some sort of safe house?” 

“Very good, my boy,” Martin praised offhandedly as he opened the door. It wasn't much warmer in the cabin and Malcolm couldn't contain a shiver. 

His father was quick about chaining him to the couch and starting a fire. Malcolm turned his head to watch his father work. He seemed… distracted. Malcolm hoped he was right about that. 

“Time to go get our friend,” Malcolm heard his father say from somewhere out of his line of sight. The front door shut and Malcolm tried to sit up. A wave of dizziness accompanied by nausea swept over him and he squeezed his eyes shut. 

"Breathe,” he whispered to himself. It took more effort than he thought it would to sit up and assess his situation. His hands were still cuffed in front of him and the chain that they were attached to was looped around the leg of the couch. Malcolm swallowed heavily and planted his bare feet on the floor. 

“One, two,” he counted off and then shoved. The couch tipped slightly. Malcolm couldn't contain a bout of hysterical laughter. _The couch isn't bolted down._ His father’s distraction gave him a chance; why wouldn't he take advantage? 


	4. Chapter 4

When he heard footsteps on the front porch steps, Malcolm reluctantly laid back down. He watched warily as his father dragged the tall man, officer Swan, through the front door. Swan glanced at him as they passed; Malcolm noted the blood dripping from a wound on his temple. The way he was stumbling suggested a concussion. 

“He has a concussion,” Malcolm piped up from where he remained on the couch. Dr. Whitly sighed irritably. 

“I’m aware,” he grumbled. “He’ll be fine.” Malcolm didn't comment further. Martin opened a door- presumably, one that led to the basement- and dragged Swan down into the darkness. 

Malcolm didn't wait to find out how long his father would be down there. He sat up again, fighting a rush of nausea as he did so, and planted his feet. A harder shover resulted in the couch tipping back completely. The impact jarred his whole body, but the back of the couch absorbed the worst of the blow. Malcolm slid the chain off of the couch leg and stumbled to his feet. 

He was on the clock now; there was no way his father didn't hear the crash. He stumbled into the kitchen in search of a phone or weapon. 

_ “Malcolm!” _ he heard his father shout.  _ “What are you doing up there?”  _

He found no landline and searching through the drawers for a cell was useless. Malcolm snatched a chef’s knife from the block and made his way to the back door. He was pretty sure his father wouldn't kill him for his disobedience…  _ pretty sure. _ Well, he couldn't say the same for himself; hesitating when given a chance could get that officer killed. 

The cold air hit him like a slap to the face. Malcolm's eyes stung at the sudden change in temperature but he forced himself not to stop. There had to be people  _ somewhere  _ out here. If he could just find someone, anyone, and use their phone… This nightmare could be over. 

_ “Malcolm!”  _ He didn't stop sprinting. He was almost to the treeline, so  _ close- _

Malcolm felt the pain before he heard the gunshot. 

He laid on the cold ground for several moments before he even realized that he had stopped. Gasps punched out of his aching chest as he tried to avoid breathing in dirt and grass. He tried to blink away the tears that welled in his eyes. 

The toe of a boot pushed Malcolm onto his back. He stared blearily up at the stars before his eyes wandered to the figure looming over him. 

His father’s face was red, from exertion or anger, Malcolm had no idea. His grip on the blade loosened and it was promptly plucked from his grasp. Letting his eyes slip closed resulted in a sharp slap to the face. The sound of his pant leg tearing was accompanied by heavy breathing from both his father and himself. 

“You're lucky I’m a good shot, my boy,” Dr. Whitly growled. “The wound is through and through; I missed the bone. Impressive, considering how little fat you have on you.” 

Malcolm choked out a whimper as his father tied something- a strip of cloth from his pant leg?- tightly around the wound. The world tilted as he was pulled to his feet. 

In lieu of carrying him, his father half dragged him back into the cabin. Malcolm tried to keep up, but the pain in his thigh was making it difficult. He could tell that the bullet just missed his knee. 

“This will be a valuable lesson, son,” his father was saying. The cabin was uncomfortably warm after his nighttime sprint outside. “If you want to act like a prisoner, I’ll treat you like one.” 

Malcolm’s world tilted  _ again _ as his father let him go. He fell further than he expected. When Malcolm opened his eyes again he realized that his father had dropped him  _ down the stairs. _ It wasn't too long a fall, but Malcolm could already feel his body protesting the rough treatment. 

The door at the top of the stairs slammed shut and locked. Malcolm closed his eyes.  _ That went well. _

~~~ 

Micheal allowed The Surgeon to lock his restraints to the wall behind him. He startled at a crash from above. The Surgeon slowly looked up, his brow furrowed.

“Malcolm?” he shouted. “What are you doing up there?” No response. He looked down at Micheal for a moment before pocketing the key and walking to the stairs. 

Micheal listened intently for any clue to what was happening. He heard a door slam. Several seconds passed of nothing. He jumped at the sound of a gunshot. 

“Fuck,” he whispered. The chain was as sturdy as it had been in the car. All he could do was wait and hope that even The Surgeon wouldn't kill his own son. 

Micheal soon found out that no, he wouldn't kill him. He didn't seem to have any qualms about injuring him, either. 

_ “If you want to act like a prisoner, I'll treat you like one.” _ The threat was followed by several thuds as Malcolm tumbled down the stairs. He cried out as he hit the floor of the basement. Micheal stared at the prone form in front of him as the door slammed shut. 

“Malcolm,” he called quietly. No response. Blood was beginning to pool around the younger man’s legs. “Fuck.” 

He pulled himself to his knees and reached towards Malcolm. The chain wasn't long enough. He sighed and sat back down. He stretched his leg out instead. He winced internally before kicking the other man’s leg. 

Malcolm gasped as his eyes flew open. He tried to scramble away, but he crumbled once again when he tried to put pressure on his injured leg. 

“Malcolm,” Micheal tried again. Frantic eyes found his. The shadows under those eyes were darkened by the dim, yellow light coming from the flickering bulb above them.

“Wha-” 

“You're injured. I need to know how badly,” Micheal explained. Malcolm stared for a moment before nodding. 

“Yeah, okay, I can-” he gritted his teeth and pushed himself up on his arms. He was panting by the time he managed to sit up completely. 

“He shot you?” Micheal asked after a moment. Malcolm let out a breathy laugh. 

“Yeah, he did.” He shook his head. “He won't kill me, but I guess he had no problem maiming me.” 

“Guess so,” Micheal said by way of agreement. “Looks like you're not bleeding too much- he missed the artery.” 

“Yeah, and it’s through and through.” Malcolm tightened the cloth tied around the wound with a pained grunt. He half crawled, half dragged himself to lean on the wall beside the stairs. 

“You can call me Micheal, by the way,” Micheal said when Malcolm said nothing else. 

“Malcolm,” the shorter man returned, shooting him a shaky smile. “But most people call me Bright.” 

“The old man doesn't approve of the name, I take it,” Micheal said carefully. This drew another laugh from Bright. 

“No, he does not.” 

“I could tell,” Micheal said. “He almost killed me over it.” Malcolm winced. 

“I wouldn't have let him,” he said after a moment. “Kill you, I mean. I'm not so sure I could stop him now, though. He’s not exactly happy with me.” 

“You tried to run?” Micheal guessed. Malcolm shrugged. 

“The couch wasn't bolted down,” he said. “Didn't think he’d shoot me over it, but…” Another shrug. 

They both fell silent. Micheal could hear their captor walking on the floor above them. 

“How’s your head?” Micheal glanced over at his companion. 

“Hurts like a bitch,” he replied. Malcolm nodded. 

“And your shoulder?” 

“The same.” 

The door opening above them silenced any reply Malcolm might have had to that. Both of them watched Dr. Whitly make his way down the stairs. His lips were pursed in a pensive frown as he took in the state that Malcolm was in. 

“Hello, my boy,” he said once he made it to the bottom of the stairs. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like you shot me,” was Malcolm’s short response. Micheal hoped that The Surgeon didn't make his son pay for his snark. 

“I suppose I deserve that,” he conceded. “The way I lost my temper was… ill-advised.”  _ Interesting, _ Micheal thought. The apologetic non-apology reminded him of the many domestic abuse cases he’d dealt with over the years. 

Malcolm didn't say anything else, just watched his father warily. “Stop looking at me like I'm going to shoot you.” 

“Again.” 

“God, when did you get so much like your mother?” Dr. Whitly huffed. “I need to stitch you up.” Malcolm did not move. Dr. Whitly scowled. “Are you going to fight me?” 

“… No,” Malcolm muttered. “Just do it.” 

Micheal found himself glad not to be on the receiving end of The Surgeon’s grin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmmmm, my head is filled with static. I have no idea if you can tell based on how this chapter is written. Let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Pidgeode's prompt: Malcolm’s had some weird hallucinations; not much surprises him at this point. Which is why when something bad DOES happen—whether it be a fire or a gun to the face—he brushes it off at first, thinking it’s all going on in his head. But it isn’t.
> 
> So here! Short and not particularly sweet :) thank you for reading, commenting, and/or leaving kudos!
> 
> EDIT: I am continuing this! time to change some tags lol


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